Halfway To Halfpoints
by Kamikaze Pedestrian
Summary: The sunset colors the sky a hot, glowing yellow and the clouds jet black, like magma beneath the crust of a scorched and cracking earth. She has the sun on her back and the deceptively unassuming door before her. Somewhere behind it, Azula waits.


The sunset colors the sky a hot, glowing yellow and the clouds jet black, like magma beneath the crust of a scorched and cracking earth. Fall is just around the bend; the afternoons cut shorter every day. In the temple yard, dried-up poppies rattle their seeds in the wind. Ty Lee tucks her fingers into her sleeves and runs up the last flight of stairs.

She took too long to choose her dress; now she's in a hurry. For this occasion, it was an important decision, one she doesn't regret spending precious time on even as the sweat dampens her undershirt. Ty Lee knows the importance of color better than most.

Red is the hallmark of her nation and should be the most obvious choice, but she has never felt comfortable in scarlet or crimson. Shades of red on her own body chafe in her eyes, clash with her aura. Green suits her surprisingly well, compliments her complexion, but today she is on a most delicate mission, one where the color is a blunt weapon. Pink calls up too many memories of the past. For her own sake, she has momentarily forsaken her favourite hue.

Ty Lee hurries down an open hallway where the pillars cast shadows that pattern the floor with broad, diagonal stripes. In the end, she went with brown. Dark, but not murky. Sombre, but with an interesting shift of purple when lit by the last flickering daylight. The color means nothing, it doesn't speak to her. But that is the point. There is a comfort in being wrapped in mute, muddy brown without any message of its own.

The door she's heading for is at the end of the hallway; she can see it now. Her steps slow down of their own accord. Hair hangs in her face and lies plastered against her temples. She brushes the strands away and smoothens her bangs. Checks her braid. Adjusts the sash around her waist. Licks her lips. They taste of worry and stubborn hope.

She has the sun on her back and the deceptively unassuming door before her.

Somewhere behind it, Azula waits.

Ty Lee lets her pounding heart settle into a more comfortable pace before entering. Once her strained puffs become even breaths, she pushes the door open. There is a nervous chill that she cannot shake. Her hand is trembly and she steadies it with the other, reaching deep inside herself for something, anything, that can pass for composure.

The first thing she notices is the silence. It is heavy and strange, almost tangible. Azula must have heard her steps outside, heard her fumble with the door, but there comes no barked command, no pinching remark. Nothing stirs inside the room. All Ty Lee hears is the absence of sound.

There are no lights in the room. The windows face east and the room is shrouded in dusky shadow. Her eyes adjust slowly to the dim light. She stays in the doorway, her mouth dry, urging her feet to move and her tongue to speak without success. The silhouette that is Azula sits eerily still.

She asked the nuns not to see her to Azula's chamber; she wanted to gather her thoughts alone. She regrets it now, somewhat. Maybe another presence, calm, professional hands taking command, would make things easier. For moments, spaces of time that threaten to stretch out indefinitely, she wavers on the edge, not daring to move forward and not willing to retreat.

Azula's voice becomes the push she needs.

"You're late."

It makes ripples in the dark waters of the silence, tiny waves licking at the shores. With the imitation of an old dynamic once again set in place, Ty Lee finds it easy to shut the door behind her and cross the fluffy rug covering worn stone tiles. She may not be cut out to take the lead, but she is not completely at a loss.

The room isn't large, though the high walls make it seem more spacious than it really is. Furnishing is sparse, yet exclusive, adorned with few decorations and textiles in a deliberate and successful attempt to avoid cluttering. The air is stuffy and Ty Lee thinks of opening a window, but the bars of merciless iron crossing it on the outside hold her back.

This is a prison of silk, soft and yielding, but strong and finely woven.

On the middle of the floor stands a table, a few chairs. Azula sits on one side. Ty Lee takes her seat on the other, facing her. The aromatic scent of tea floats over cups and plates.

"Hello, Azula."

She gets no immediate answer. Azula lifts her head slowly, gracefully, the bangs framing her face glossy in the dying light. Four years haven't made much difference to her looks. She is still beautiful in a knife-sharp way, with flawless skin, full lips and glowing eyes. Her makeup is as always perfect. That makes the shadows beneath her eyes seem all the more dark, all the more jarring.

Ty Lee remembers the nuns' warnings: the Princess has had a restless night; she may not seem quite like herself. But when Azula raises a brow in open disdain as she regards Ty Lee, every shift in her features is as familiar as her own aura.

"That's a hideous dress."

Smoothing her hands over her skirt, Ty Lee can't help smiling.

"Oh, you don't like it? I don't know, I think it's-"

"You have more courage than I've been willing to give you credit for," Azula interrupts, "coming here alone. You must know I still have my bending."

She picks up her cup, one hand supporting the bottom, steam curling before her face. They have cut her nails. With the fingertips soft and rounded, her hands look small, young, so unlike those of the once-to-be Firelord Ty Lee used to know.

"It would be easy for me to hurt you; I hope you realize that," Azula continues. "A touch of lightning, and you would be dead well before the guards arrive. Or I could simply set that disgusting rag you're wearing on fire, and watch you burn. I'm sure your screams would be quite enjoyable."

Having said hers, Azula purses her lips and takes a sip of tea. Ty Lee twists her fingers around each other in her lap, squeezing until it hurts. There's a tight ache in her stomach. Azula's eyes are frightfully cold.

Acid fear threatens to rise in her throat. She swallows, hard, and finds that it slides back down without resistance. She isn't afraid. Not today. Straightening her back, Ty Lee reminds herself that she is different now. Different, once again. To her own surprise, her voice comes out calm and steady.

"You wouldn't do that."

The silence that follows is a broad river, still on the surface, but with violent streams swirling in its depths. Azula has narrowed her eyes, jet black lashes almost hiding the glowing yellow of her irises. Ty Lee meets her gaze, and doesn't blink until tears well up in her straining eyes.

It is Azula who looks away first, with a small, derisive huff.

"No, I wouldn't. I'm on my best behaviour these days, to grant me the benefits of civilized lodgings and a bit of privacy, once in a while." She twists her mouth into a wry smirk. "I am the perfect patient."

There is no telling if she meant to be funny. Just in case, Ty Lee giggles. The sound flutters toward the ceiling light, without substance.

"That's great! I mean, it is, right?"

Azula only sighs.

"Why are you here?"

Her words are charged with hostility; a hostility best repelled with a smile, Ty Lee decides, and beams her very brightest.

"To see you."

"And now you have. So you may leave."

Azula makes a dismissive gesture that is refined and firm. Regal.

Ty Lee sets her shoulders and stays put. She can be plenty firm, too.

"I'm not leaving," she says, leaning slightly forward in the chair, speaking quickly out of a fear of being interrupted again. "The nuns gave me the eastern cottage, just outside the walls, you know the one? I'll be living here from now on. With you."

The sun has sunk below the horizon; the moon rising in its stead, pale light sharpening the shadows. It snakes through the bars to fall in tall squares across the room, to glitter in the tea spilling on the table when Azula slams her cup down, to shine in her eyes as they widen in fury.

"This is hilarious. You think I want you here, don't you?" Her laughter is hard and shrill, like fine porcelain breaking. "Poor deluded Ty Lee. You think I've missed you!"

Azula is clutching her knees, blunt nails scratching at the fabric of her tunic, back crouched and shoulders heaving. She's baring her teeth; her beauty scrunched up and wrinkled with rage, every crease accentuated by moonlight.

Ty Lee springs to her feet, out of the impulse to flee or because of the will to comfort her friend; she doesn't know.

"I think you have." It may be the wrong thing to say. She may be making things worse. Azula still has her bending and she has so much more anger now, anger and madness and Ty Lee is scared, so very scared, and sad. So very sad. "I've missed you, too."

Her voice is a whimper. Her knees feel weak and her hands numb. The stiff curve of Azula's back relaxes slowly, until she comes to sit upright again, as straight and correct as ever. She has turned her head away.

Ty Lee waits. She waits for mockery or insults or laughter or flames, and when they don't come she waits breathlessly for smiles and dry jokes and warm hugs.

They don't come.

Azula's face is empty, her lips pressed tightly together, and Ty Lee aches to pry them open with her tongue, to find whatever words she's hiding, keep them in her mouth, and then return them.

Instead she holds out her hand, begging. She reaches halfway over the table, her arm like a bridge with one half swept away by a flood.

"Azula, please."

She waits.


End file.
